


The Sound Of Blue

by MsBluebell



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura & Keith (Voltron) Friendship, Alternate Universe - Theater, Art, Artist Keith, Cinderella - Freeform, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Keith Kogane: Human Disaster, Keith has Synesthesia, Klance Pinefest 2018, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Mutual Pinning, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), actor lance, background lotura, oblivious keith, poor communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 09:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18775810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBluebell/pseuds/MsBluebell
Summary: Keith is a synesthesic artist, burning himself out painting the backgrounds for the theater's production of Cinderella. Lance is the actor playing Prince Charming who can't stop putting his foot in his mouth. Together, they make the most average and tired love story the audience is probably glad they'll never see.





	The Sound Of Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to BlackRoseMii for the art. And thank you to SilviaMoon for betaing.

A smear of blue caked his pale cheek as the raven haired boy swiped his brush across the background. Blue danced across his vision as the waltz played in his ear, sounds painting his vision as easily as his brush painted the canvas. This was the most important background in the play, and he wanted to make sure to get this right.

Violet eyes hyper focused as the boy used the paint to leave long lines of thin sky blue behind. A ballroom slowly came to life beneath him, the fine detail finishing off weeks of hard work and careful perfection. He’d lost a lot of sleep for this room, it received more attention than any other background he and his fellow set designers had been tasked with creating.

Keith placed down his brush, stepping back to review his work. Maybe the smaller details weren’t needed, the audience certainly wouldn’t see them from their seats, but he’d poured so much time and work into the scene that he wanted it to be perfect for him more than them. This was one of his last pieces before the show, the benefit of him being obsessive towards his work, and it was beautiful. The fine golden foil sheen practically glowed beneath the lights, a fine shine to everything, the royal blue he’d just painted accented the stairwell leading down to the ballroom floor. It was three dimensional, with actual fake columns in the foreground and a chandelier ready to be lowered onto the set, and with actual stairs for the actors to descend. He was proud to say that the Altean Regal Theater would definitely being using this set again. He was confident of it.

The noirette took a step back, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead, scrutinizing his work. His paint stained T-shirt hung loosely from a shoulder, the black material permanently stained with evidence of his past works, the newest golden and blue stains joined the myriad of colors spread across the cheap fabric. He hoped the owner of the theater, Alfor, likes it. Keith only got the job here because Allura loved his stuff so much, but he doesn’t think he’ll get to keep his job here if the dad doesn’t like it. He’s feeling pretty confident though, especially since he’d finished a good month before his deadline.

Satisfied, Keith reached down and plucked up his long forgotten coffee cup, taking a long and rewarding sip as he let his shoulders relax, relishing a job well done. He dropped his brush into a dirty cup, also caked with years of paint, letting the fine bristles soak away the blue.

He backed towards the edge of the stage, staring at his masterpiece, inspired loosely by the Winter Palace royal stairwell, leading straight out into the stage out into the dancefloor. He didn’t copy it completely, of course, there were a lot of original touches, and he was proud to say that it looked real good on the stage. Swiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, Keith took another long sip of the cinnamon-nutmeg brew. It's long gone cold. He winced at the taste, because there's nothing worse than cold coffee.

“Good lord!” A voice cries out from the back of the audience. Keith whipped around, eyes jerking towards the extravagant entrance way of the otherwise empty theater. Standing in the middle of the large double doors was a wide eyed Coran, mouth agape, his orange voice misting through the raven haired boy’s senses, “Keith, lad, have you been here all night?”

“No.” Keith shook his head, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the stage, a single leg hanging off. He pushed his coffee away, pulling out an earbud, dropping the cord to let it dangle loosely from the collar of his work shirt, “I came in early to finish up this piece.”

And he got done way ahead of schedule.

Which left him plenty of time to be...distracted.

“What time are the actors coming in today.” Keith asked, tying to sound casual. He hopes he’s convincing, there’s a reason he’s not one of the actors. There’s a flicker of light off his wallet chain, and it’s suddenly very appealing to look at. He hopes Coran doesn’t notice that he even knew the actors were coming in today. Guessing is hit or miss for professional performances like this, and more often than not you’re going to be right if you guess the actors are coming in for practice, so Coran shouldn’t notice.

He’s being paranoid, he realizes dimly.

“Not for another hour.” Coran strokes his mustache, strolling down the red velvet aisle towards the stage, eyes critically studying the work. Goofy as he was, Coran was still the stage manager, and while Keith somehow ended up as the set designer the sketch he’d originally done for the guys down in the woodshop hadn’t been as colorful and as finely detailed as this. He might have gotten a bit ahead of himself.

Pale fingers reach out for his cold coffee, holding it between his hands again because he suddenly needed to do something with them. He should do a coffee run after Coran is done, pick up some breakfast or something. He’s got an hour, he doesn’t need a hot breakfast. Or he could stop by McDonalds which would leave him plenty of time before…

“This is such fine detail Keith.” Coran gasped, bending over to examine the finer details, eyes on a particular set of golden vines. “I’m afraid it will be quite wasted. There’s no possible way the audience will be able to see these tiny flowers.”

“But you like it, right?” Keith raised a brow, not particularly caring whether the spectators would see it. Maybe he didn’t need to put so much time and effort into it, but it was important to him, he wanted it to be good, loved even. This was his masterpiece, he’d poured his very soul into it. And he knows he’s stupid, he knows he shouldn’t have fixated on this set piece so much, but…

Keith stares at his shoes, shuffling his feet, trying to hide the pink flush he knows has painted across his cheeks.

“Oh, I think it’s magnificent.” Coran twirls away from the set, stopping once he was in front of the pale boy. Keith, for his part, wasn’t fazed by the show of dramatics, more than used to it by now. Still, having the New Zealand man’s bright orange mustache suddenly in his face was enough to even make him blink for a bit. “I just worry that all this effort won’t go appreciated.”

Oh, it would be appreciated. He doesn’t need everyone to notice, he just needs Prince Charming to.

Keith would, of course, absolutely never tell Coran that, so instead he stirs the topic in a slightly different direction, “Maybe if you keep it some tourist will see it while it’s up.”

“Oh, we’ll certainly be keeping this.” Coran waved his arm dramatically behind him, “Alfor and Allura are going to adore it. I’m just lamenting that it was so much wasted effort. Are you sure you weren’t here all night, my boy?”

If by all night, Coran meant since midnight, then yeah, Keith wasn’t. He left for a whole two hours to feed his dog and take a quick nap. Shiro would have nothing to say because he wasn’t here all night, okay. So when he inevitably checked the hours Keith clocked in he would have nothing to say.

…

Fuck, he needs warm coffee. And food. Did he eat last night? He fed Kosmo, that’s unquestionable, he would never neglect Kosmo. He’s starting to think that he forgot to grab something for himself though. In fact, he’s pretty sure he forgot.

“I’m sure.” Keith sighs, twirling the cup of cold coffee in his hand. He should get the pot behind the stage going, but that wouldn’t solve his breakfast issue. He might as well bite the bullet and go out to find something. “I’m going out to find breakfast and more coffee, want anything?”

“I’m fine with the coffee machine.” Coran waved him off with a shooing motion, green eyes still locked onto the scene. “Go on, go find some food and take a break. You’re ahead enough that you could take the day off.”

“A day off? Sounds terrible.” Keith comments casually, because fuck, he’s not taking off for anything. He's no workaholic...normally...but he’s got a good reason he wants to be here. A day off is unacceptable. “I’m going to get a head start on the garden background now that the ballroom is done. I’m just going to get a latte or something. Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“Only for you to get some sleep, lad.” Coran’s orange voice sighs, the man stroking his equally orange mustache.

“Sleep? Maybe later.” Keith shrugs, turning his back on the man. He walks off the stage, jumping from the wooden platform and onto the velvet carpet. He should grab his jacket, because it’s chilly outside, but he’s still a paint stained mess and he would rather freeze than get paint all over it. Simple jacket or not, that was his favorite article of clothing, one of the first things he bought for himself, the first thing he’s ever owned that wasn’t out of a donation bin. Well, since his dad died anyway. “You seem like a bagel kind of guy.”

“I’ve already had breakfast I’m afraid.” Coran’s orange voice finally admitted a bit sheepishly. “Go on now, if you insist on running yourself ragged then you might as well have fuel in your system.”

Keith snorted, giving a two finger salute as he backed out of the theater, turning only once he was out of sight, marching out into the cold morning air.

He immediately regretted not wearing his jacket. It wasn’t freezing or anything, but the temperature had dipped down more than he thought it would today. He huffs, crossing his arms stubbornly and marching forward, refusing to go back in. Besides, he reasons, he really doesn’t want paint on that jacket.

Motivated by a need for good coffee and a refusal to go back into the theater, Keith moved forward, eyes peeled for the nearest cafe. It was still a little dark out, the sun rose with the early morning greyness that only that magical time between late autumn and early winter could bring.

Everything was grey this morning, Keith mused at his shoes as he stepped outside the theater and onto the wooden path of the boardwalk, violet eyes finding the grey waters, sounds of the waves collapsing in on themselves just as grey. The call of seagulls were white against the sky. The chill of the ocean beat against his exposed forearms, sending fine shivers across his skin.

He huffed, blowing hot breath against his icy hands, trying in vain to save some warmth. The chill blew right through him though, right down to the bone. Giving up on that, he shoved his hands into his pocket, hurrying along the grey boardwalk to find someplace warmer, and hopefully towards food.

He only had an hour, so the first place he found would have to do.

Thankfully, it didn’t take him too long to find a suitable place open, just about a five minute walk. It was small, squished between a souvenir shop and a bike rental place. He’d never even noticed it before. So he beelined for the glass door, taking a quick glance through the windows before pushing the door open, bell ringing as he entered the near empty eatery.

A wave of warmth went past his cheeks, melting away the cold that had overtaken his body. He took a moment to study the decor, warm and simple, quiet, with a used bookshelf to leave and take books, and a long bar with stools, a few old booths, and used tables everywhere. Nice, rustic, and just how Keith liked it. If the food and coffee turned out to be good then he may have to frequent this place again.

“Welcome!” An amber voice called from behind the bar. A young woman climbed down from a ladder, where she had been updating the chalkboard menu. She brushed her apron as she landed on the ground, warm brown eyes on him as she spoke, “Have a seat anywhere! I’ll be with you in just a moment!”

The worker, a kindly girl named Shay, was quick and polite. She didn’t make small talk, thank goodness, and she was professional, but with a sweet disposition. A perfect server to go with a perfect atmosphere. The food was pretty good too, not the best he’d ever had, but his hashbrown was better than he thought it would be, nice and fresh and warm on the stomach.

The real treasure, however, was the coffee.

This was some of the best coffee he’d ever tasted. He isn’t sure what that girl did to it, but he’d never had a better spiced coffee in his entire life. Screw the food, this place is worth revisiting just for this coffee alone. He’s on his third cup by the time he finishes breakfast, and he doesn't even regret how much money he’s wasting.

He’s getting ready to pay the bill, debating getting another coffee to go so he can keep up the energy, when the bell rings loud and bronze against the walls. Keith’s eyes instinctively jerk towards the door.

And, suddenly, his world was blue.

“Morning Shay!” A very beautiful, very familiar, blue called. Keith’s heart constricted as the tanned man pushed his way inside, big, goofy, smile on his face. His cheeks were pinched slightly rosey, blue eyes landing right on the servers as he strolled inside, letting the glass door fall closed behind him none-too-delicately. The green jacket hid arms that Keith knew were well toned, sharp jaw resting on him palms as the boy leaned against the counter, “I need my frappe Shay, I got a loooong day ahead of me.”

Lance McClain.

Prince Charming himself.

Keith’s throat tightened as he turned back towards is coffee, forcing himself to look away from the Cuban. He’s suddenly self aware of every fault in his appearance, from his paint stained shirt to the cracking smear of bright blue he forgot to scratch off his cheek. He was filthy, absolutely filthy. Why hadn’t he cleaned himself before coming out?

He doesn’t know why he’s panicking, it wasn’t like Lance hadn’t seen him like this before. It just feels different now that he wasn’t at work, safely hidden behind his excuse of exposure to paints and work equipment. Now he’s just a mess out in public.

As if he didn’t have enough problems with Lance.

“Good morning, Lance.” Shay spoke kindly, her amber voice light as a bell and warm as his coffee, “I’ll get your usual in just a moment, just let me finish up with my current customer.”

Lance frowned, looking around as if he only just realized that there could be other people here rather than just he and Shay. Those blue, blue, eyes flickered over every nook and cranny, stopping only once they found Keith’s pale and paint stained form. The Cuban’s face almost immediately fell, his gaze narrowing as he spoke, “What are you doing here?”

This...was not how he wanted his morning to go.

He was hoping to be a bit more cleaned up and energized before he saw Lance. He wanted to greet the other by showing off his masterpiece, under the spotlights where the golden paint would practically sparkle and draw the eye. Maybe it was a melodramatic plan, a bit shallow even, but it was the one thing he could really think of to impress the actor. He’d had hopes of maybe finally putting the animosity Lance felt for him to an end, but presentation mattered a lot there, and now his whole plan was ruined.

He should’ve just skipped breakfast and drank from the theater’s pot.

“Oh! Do you two know each other?” Shay spoke again, looking between them, her dangly earrings dancing as she moved her head.

“You could say that.” Lance stated, staring intently at the raven haired boy. His eyes flickered up and down, roaming over Keith’s form. Tanned hands landed on the boy’s hips, wrinkling his nose at the sight of Keith’s messy form. The other boy frowned, reaching to brush pale fingers through his hair, wild and unbrushed after a long night of work. God, he should have stopped by the bathroom and cleaned up before heading out. What was he thinking?

“We work together.” Keith turns away, raising his hand to flag Shay down before Lance could make a smart remark, “I’ll take the check, and add another coffee to go, please.”

“Of course.” Shay nodded, moving to complete his requests.

Unfortunately, this obvious attempt at avoiding confrontation didn't help. If anything, this only seemed to piss Lance off somehow. The brunette huffed, crossing his arms, “Got somewhere important to be, mullet?”

“Work. Same as you.” Keith shrugs, willing himself not to give into the bait this morning. It was just so easy to snap around Lance, the brunette having an amazing talent for pushing his buttons. But Keith is not going to do this right now, not when he made this so easy for Lance. He waited impatiently for Shay to fishish his coffee, humming to herself as she finished it off and turned to walk towards the register.

Lance clicked his tongue, “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Thanks.” Keith replies flatly as Shay finally reaches the register. The girl winces, sending Lance a look that the raven haired boy can’t quite decipher. Lance, for his part, looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. He wasn’t about to try an interpret the interaction though, because, frankly, he didn’t care. His plans were already ruined, and he just wanted to go home. There wasn’t even a point going back to the theater, and he was already teetering on the edge of working too many hours this week dedicating hours of precious time to impressing Lance.

Just his fucking luck.

“You should call out and take a nap.” Lance suggests, moving into Keith’s personal bubble and squinting at the notable dark circles forming underneath violet eyes, “Don’t want you passing out and needing a ride to the hospital or something during rehearsals.”

“I’ll be fine.” Keith snapped back, taking his coffee from Shay’s hand and reaching for his wallet. The girl stood there, awkwardly watching the exchange, not so subtly trying to motion for Lance to stop. He decided to ignore them though, too drained and annoyed to comment, counting out change in his palms while their silent conversation went on around him.

“At least you ate something.” Lance peers where his mess of dishes lay, waiting for Shay to clean them once he left. “You really need a shower or something though. Your mullet is in danger of getting all greasy.”

“Are you saying I stink?” Keith snaps, finally tired of Lance’s backhanded comments. He turns, glaring at the boy, paper coffee cup clutched firmly in hand.

God, Lance couldn’t give him a break even when he was a mess, could he? It’s like Lance made it his personal mission to harass him every chance he got. Except for those few, rare, moments when he was almost sincere and open with him, usually followed by emotional whiplash as Lance went right back to insulting him.

Why did the gorgeous ones always have to be jerks?

“Well, yeah, now that you say it.” Lance tapped his finger against his arm.

Shay made a hissing noise from behind him, like the comment had been directed at her rather than him. He appreciates the sympathy, he really does, but he hates that Lance is doing this again in front of strangers. Keith hisses, grip tightening around his coffee cup, and wishes he had a similar retort he could throw at Lance right now. Unfortunately, the brunette looked fine, probably freshly showered and worked through his morning beauty routine.

With no proper ammunition, and not willing to look like an idiot and come up with an inappropriate retort, Keith directs his temper elsewhere, “Fine, I guess I’ll go right on home and forget about getting the ballroom done. Wouldn’t want to distract Prince Charming’s delicate sense with my smell.”

With that said, Keith rushed out of the building, coffee clutched firmly in hand, not willing to deal with this in front of strangers again. It was bad enough went Lance thought they were fighting over Allura or whatever was going on when they joined the theater. Honestly, he’d thought they were really calming down lately too, learning to get along better.

He scoffs to himself, bringing the warm cup closer to his face, trying to protect himself from the sudden chill that hits down to his very bones. Honestly? He should just go home and get that rest Coran wanted him to take. Screw his plan. Shiro was right, all this effort to impress a boy was fucking stupid.

Maybe instead of working for the theater he could just take that job for Allura and design perfume bottles. It wasn’t exactly his taste, but he’d probably at least make a decent paycheck and meet some guys that weren’t jerks like Lance.

No.

No, he wasn’t going to quite and give up like that. He wasn’t going to let one bad encounter with Lance ruin his day. He never has before and he isn’t going to now just because his surprise didn’t work out and Lance was acting like...like...Lance.

God, he needed a better taste in guys.

It takes him half the time to storm back to the theater than it did to find a place for breakfast, storming inside the room and straight for his things, the determination burning through him. If he couldn’t impress Lance than he was damn well going to make sure every background was the real standouts of the show. They’d be the most beautiful, most stunning, backgrounds he could ever create. Every. Single. One of them.

He marches past a startled Coran, plucking up the earbuds still hanging from his collar and plugging them into his ears. He scrolls through his playlist, selecting the playlist for Cinderella and grabbing his brush. A world of silvers and blues plays across his vision, drowning the world in the vast colors of music.

* * *

When Keith gets lost in his painting he gets really lost. Drowning in a sea of color and music, surrounded and overstimulated by sensations. It’s easy for him to forget where he is, to disassociate in a way. It’s not that he’s unaware, per se, but he’s almost too hyper focused to care about what’s going on around him, and he won’t even remember if someone speaks to him while he’s painting.

He’s working on the garden now, a place where most of the play takes place, Cinderella’s home manor sitting in the background. He’s as careful with this as he’d ever been with the ballroom, even more careful in some cases. He only just started this one, the expanding blank canvas slowly being devoured by his paint. The ballroom may be the most important piece, but this was the one people would be looking at the longest, the one where they would notice flaws if they bothered to pay attention. So he’s giving it the same special care and attention that the ballroom scene received.

He’d even broken out his prized good paints for this one.

Blue and silver is the main color scheme of the garden. A nightly scene, with blue roses coming to live in the bushes, the delicate petals tipped with diamond silver edges. He’s been at this for way longer than he should, spite and bitter disappointment fueling him onwards, crafting every individual leaf on the bushes in the bottom left corner of the canvas, the row of blue roses standing out starkly against the deep green leaves. It would be a while before he could work on the house and fountain, but the garden itself looked beautiful. He might even dip into his beloved Stuart Stemple paints on add some pink roses to contrast with the bluel, to make the roses really pop.

Taking a step back, the raven haired artist removes his earbuds, the dancing colors fading as he dropped them, grumbling as he pushes aside long empty cups of coffee that someone had been handing him while he was stuck in his trance. He remembers that they had tanned hands, so it must have been Allura.

Speaking of Allura, she was next to him, sitting in a pulled up chair, chattering away in various hues of pink between bites of cheesecake. The monster, cheesecake was their thing.

“You better have brought me a slice.” Keith grumbles as he washes his hands against his jeans, dropping brushes into water and sitting cross legged on the floor.

“You don’t need cheesecake with lactose intolerance.” Allura repeats the same old words she says every time even as she pushes him a tiny place with his slice of cake. “You’ll get sick and then Shiro will be furious.”

“What Shiro doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Keith states nonchalantly as he stabs the cake with his fork, prying a piece from the whole and munching on it without hesitation, humming at the taste. He’s going to regret this later, he knows he will, but right now he’s living on the edge. The sweet, sugary, edge.

“Your backgrounds are very beautiful.” Allura states now that their well rehearsed conversation is over, poking at the most obvious conversation she could think of. They’re both awkward, in a way, and obsessed with their work. Keith isn’t even sure how she managed to convince herself to guest star in this play, probably pulled the best friend card, support for the work and whatnot. That and her dad owned the theater.

Though it was probably because she secretly always wanted to play the fairy godmother. She’d been over the moon when she got the part, easily rebuffing the princess role in favor of it.

“I’m planning on adding pink roses to the bushes.” Keith flicks a cherry into his mouth, god he loved cherries, “With the world’s pinkest pink.”

“Oh! That will be lovely.” Allura hummed, “I think that will outshine the ballroom for me.”

“Don’t say that, I spent weeks on the ballroom.” Keith rubs his eyes. He’s still exhausted, running on fumes at best. He wouldn’t be surprised if his eyebags are more prominent than ever, the deep bruises probably make him look more like a zombie than an actual person. Spite, it turned out, burned a lot of energy when you were already pushing 48 hours with only two hours of sleep.

So long as Shiro doesn’t stop by for a surprise visit it should be fine.

Maybe.

“You know I love pink and gardens.” Allura hums, cupping her face in her hands and leaning against her knees, “What were you listening to for the color scheme.”

“Prokofiev’s Cinderella Suite, The Fairy Godmother.” Keith waves towards the bush, “Mostly for the flowers and night sky background.”

“Oh, that’s sweet you’re making this one for me Keith.” Allura says the words as a simple thanks, but there’s something layered underneath, a hint of teasing that was almost unnoticeable to those that didn’t know her well. Back when they first met, when they didn’t exactly get along because of people he was...unfortunately distantly related to, he’d gotten really good at catching them. Now that skill came in handy when it came to catching her bullshit.

“I make my art for me, Allura.” Keith lies through his teeth, unwilling to admit that while, yeah, this was mostly for her because this was her standout scene, a part of it was for…

“I’m sure.” Allura stabbed her own cheesecake, “It has absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. At all. That’s why you’ve been moody and stuck yourself behind a wall all day. Not at all to do with the fact that blue is incorporated into every scene. Certainly not.”

Sometimes Keith hates that he told her about how he sees sounds as color, and he regrets even more he ever told her what color some people are to him. He stabs his cake, shoving the piece into his mouth, purposely ignoring her baiting. He’s not going to fall for this. He refuses. So he deflects instead, going for the throat, “How’s Lotor by the way? Still oblivious?”

Allura makes a frustrated noise, huffing as she crosses her legs and goes back to poking at her cake. She’s been playing a slow game with Lotor for weeks now, a sort of silent competition to see which of them breaks down and asks the other on a date first, and it was fun at first but now he’s starting to feel frustrated just watching this nonsense play out. In his humble opinion they should just kiss already and get it over with. It doesn’t help that Lotor stopped by the set every day to visit Allura, so even work wasn’t safe. He always used the excuse that Acxa and Ezor were playing the evil step sisters and he was here to see them, but everyone knew the truth.

“I’m going to break him any day now.” Allura states firmly as she mutilates her food.

“I’m sure you will.” Keith states flatly, because he doesn’t buy that at all. At least she’s off the subject of him and Lance now, because as infuriating as the Lotor situation is he’d rather hear about it over the Lance situation any day. His violet eyes snap back to the outline of roses against his canvas, waiting to be filled with color, the whiteness standing out and mocking him. Many, many, styrofoam cups flank the front, a small army standing as messy proof to his disastrous and spite fueled dive into insanity.

“Thanks for making sure I didn’t kneel over and die.” Keith reaches over and picks up a single empty cup, shaking it between two fingers for emphasis. “I’d never get this done without your caffeine delivery.”

A single, silvery, platinum blonde, eyebrow lifts at him. Allura has her judging face on again, and he knows the lecture is coming before she even opens her mouth. She sounds annoyed as she speaks, frustrated even. “Keith, I wasn’t the one delivering coffee to you today.”

It’s Keith’s turn to raise a disbelieving eyebrow at her, “Who else would bother Allura? Shiro’s not here, Lotor isn’t here either, and for damn sure Pidge isn’t coming down from the labs.”

Allura’s face dropped, less annoyed now than she was outright concerned. She says as much, finishing off her cake with a twist in her lips and fork hanging loosely between her fingers, “As both your friend and the daughter of your employer, it concerns me that you’ve spent all day accepting drinks without knowing who gave them to you. I believed you were more paranoid than that.”

“I’ll let you know if someone roofies me in the middle of the theater with a whole cast of witnesses.” Keith snorts, the sarcasm dripping from him, too tired to hold it back, “If you didn’t get me the coffee then who did? Did you rope someone into being my coffee dilivery boy?”

An amused look flashes across Allura’s face, but it sinks back into that same concerned look from before, her voice soft as she spoke, “Do you really not know?”

“I wouldn’t be wasting our time asking if I did.” Keith huffs, finishing off his last bite of cake, dropping the plate and fork on the floor, scooting it away with his foot and reaching for his brush. He’d clean up the mess later, it’s not like the actors are rehearsing on the props and such now anyway, so he’s not in the way. He twirls his brush in between his fingers, using his other hand to break open his pinkest paint for some of the roses, just like he promised Allura.

“I simply cannot believe that you didn't notice I wasn’t the one feeding your terrible caffeine addiction.” Allura stated instead of answering him, tapping her foot rhythmically against the stage floor, the sound sharp and silver like steel, “I’m going to call Shiro. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t call Shiro.” Keith groaned, dipping his brush into the pink, the bright color nearly identical to the sounds of rolling waves. “He’ll be unbearable. And he’s got to fly that one guy out to Paris soon and he doesn’t need to be smothering before he goes.”

“He wouldn’t need to if you actually took care of yourself.” Allura quipped, poking him with the point of her shoe, “This is why you’re not flying planes too.”

“The 1% couldn’t handle me.” Keith scoffs, knowing full well he’s talking to a member of that same percentile. “They’d complain about the lack of caviar and I’d get myself fired.”

“What a waste of a pilot's licence.” Allura grumbled, eyeing him disapprovingly, “Keith, go home.”

“I want to finish the roses.” The pale boy grumbles in return. He knows Allura is right, but he’s not going to her of all people. “Besides, I don’t want to hear that from someone that once went a week on a latte fueled rampage through fashion week.”

“Those perfumes needed to get out in time for Vogue magazine!” Allura is still trying to justify her disastrous trip through insanity even now, weeks later. “Those samples weren’t going to make themselves.”

“Don’t want to hear it.” Keith repeats smugly, and if he still had coffee he’d take a satisfied sip of it as she squirmed for excuses.

“Say what you will, Keith, but at least I never took possibly drugged coffee from a stranger.” Allura sniped back, “I would laugh if you died from poison because you didn’t check your coffee.”

“I’m sure you’ll say something at my funeral.” The raven haired boy brushes back a loose lock behind his ear, smearing pink on his face before bringing back the brush towards the roses. On top of everything else his hair is even messier than before now, and he thinks he’s starting to get gittery. His arms are certainly shaking, but he’s not going to go home early when Lance was still lurking somewhere around here.

Stupid Lance.

Speaking of, where was he? Did he go out for lunch already? Probably, only he and Allura usually stuck around the stage room most days. Technically they weren’t supposed to, but who was going to tell the owner’s daughter not to eat on stage? No one, that’s who. Still, while Lance usually went out for lunch there were some times when he would lurk around, munching on a sandwich and trying to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping.

Probably trying to ogle Allura.

The raven hair boy chews at the end of his paintbrush, hyper focusing on the brushstrokes he just left on the roses. Should he apply a second coat? Maybe he should add some lilacs to the garden. His hands should really stop shaking before he tries that though.

...And maybe his vision should stop blurring a bit, because those roses were starting to bleed together…

“I won’t, I’ll go up and tell everyone how foolish you were before you died.” Allura’s pink voice echoes in the back of his head, distant and underwater. “I’ll make a whole speech around the depths of your foolishness. I can’t believe you didn’t realize who was giving you coffee, this is infuriating. I never want you to say anything about me being oblivious again when you can’t even pay attention to who is handing you a cup.”

“I’m going to pass out.” Keith states matter-of-factly, barely aware of her words as he drops his brush, the pink splattering all over the protective tarp beneath his feet. His head is suddenly very, very, dizzy and he finds himself clutching his forehead and leaning forward for just a moment. Gravity is gone, and he has just enough time to say one last thing before he hits the ground, “I’m passing out.”

And then he does just that.

* * *

Keith wakes up almost as soon as he blacks out. Or so he guesses.

“-told mullet to go home, but he was stubborn about it.” The blue of Lance’s voice rings through his head like a stick beating a gong. His head pounds with every sound, senses overwhelmed by everything going on around him, and Lance has always been so fucking loud. “But he just got huffy and marched off.”

Keith groaned, because Lance just couldn’t stop being a jerk for ten minutes, could he? This caused the hushed whispering to die down around him, and violet eyes peer open to try and gauge what, exactly, was going on.

It looked like the whole crew was surrounding him, even the backstage worker apparently took time to make sure he was okay. That or they just wanted to see someone unconscious. Could be either really. He’d been moved, if the feel of the velvet beneath his fingertips was right, to the front row pews from the stage. He groaned again, leaning upward, trying to stand up, only for two hands to land on his shoulder and push him back, “Nope! No, no, no. You’re not getting back up! Not after you just passed out mister!”

“I’m fine.” Keith instisted, trying to sit up some more, but those arms locked firmly in place. The raven haired boy huffed, glancing upwards with a huff of annoyance, only to find Lance hovering above him, glaring down at him with that same look he always had before he let off a string of insults.

“Don’t you give me that.” Lance sniffed, and Keith hated that he was in the perfect position to see his Adam’s apple bobbing and the slightest bit glistening of sweat just beneath the hem of his shirt, on the muscled chest. And if waking up to that sight when he just woke up wasn’t the most unfair thing then Keith didn’t know what was. Yes, he does realize the irony of a tragically orphaned, abandoned, abuse survivor from the foster system saying that. He doesn’t care, this was still unfair.

“I just got dizzy.” Keith insisted, trying to stand up, but Lance wasn’t letting up.

The Cuban clicked his tongue and pushed him right back against the seat. “Nope. No, not doing this. You’re sitting down and taking a nap.”

“Nap done.” Keith tried to squirm from under the brunette’s grip. The rest of the crew were watching in mild interest, some starting to back away a bit, the familiar frustration that often came with watching their infamous arguments playing out again. He doesn’t blame them, he’s more than a little tired of it himself.

“Ten minutes of being out cold doesn’t count Keith.” Lance snaps, eyes scrunching up in that way they do when he’s stressed about something. And maybe Keith would back off just a little bit if this was anyone else.

But it’s not so he won’t, “I’m fine.”

“You just passed out.” Lance nearly screeched, not quite, but nearly. It was still too much for Keith’s pounding head to take. “You are not fine. You need to go home and sleep.”

“I can’t go home, I have a deadline.” Keith puffs, blowing a single strand of hair out of his face. He would have thought that at least Lance understood the need to finish the work. The Cuban had been up in arms about rehearsals and getting everything done on time.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to argue when you just passed out.” Lance looked ready to pull out his own hair in frustration, “What is with you? Why are you like this?!”

And that stung a bit. It shouldn't, it was far from the worst thing Lance ever said to him, but something about how frustrated he sounded made it seem worse somehow. So he snapped back, falling into Lance’s insult like he always did, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re running yourself into an early grave and ignoring anyone who bothers trying to help.” Lance spat, crossing his arms, “And I’m sick of it. What? Do you think you’re too good for help or something?”

“No.” Keith spat right back, not letting himself flinch at the words. He hoped that’s not how he came off, but he knows he doesn't have the most friendly resting face, and he’s more than a little abrasive. He knows he has trouble with people, it’s always been his weak point. Still, he never wanted to come off that way. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth to be reminded of his shortcomings again.

“Alright! That’s enough!” Allura storms between them, all righteous fury and billowing hair, pulling Lance back and standing between them like an immovable stone wall, hands out and eyes flickering between them. “I know you’re worried, Lance, but there’s no use arguing, especially when Keith only just woke up.”

She rounds on Keith then, her lips firm line, arms crossed, “As for you, I skipped calling your brother. Adam is on his way.”

The woman didn’t look any level of pitying when Keith audibly and loudly groaned at this. That wasn’t fair, in his opinion, because Adam was every bit worse at mother henning than Shiro could ever hope to be. Shiro, at least, was just as much a disaster as he was. Adam? No, Adam was responsible and an actual functioning adult. Which meant he was in for absolute hell when the man got here.

And Shiro would back up anything Adam said. The weak, whipped, jerk.

“Fucks sake Allura.” Keith made his complaints known, “You couldn’t have just called Shiro? Adam is too much.”

“You passed out and nearly gave me a heart attack.” Allura stated firmly, arms still crossed as she glared down at him, “I have absolutely no pity.”

People were starting to break away now, but a few stayed, Lance and Allura being the notable ones as they took it on themselves to glare him down. Romelle, who had been silently among the crowd until now, stepped up and decided that she would at least have some pity. The blonde girl stepped up, decked out in a Disney Cinderella T-shirt as her attempt to get more into character, placing a hand to pat him on the head. “It’s okay Keith, you just need a little rest, you can come back to work tomorrow.”

Poor girl, she had no idea what hell Adam was going to put him through.

* * *

Adam wasn’t happy when he picked up Keith.

The man didn’t storm into the theater, or cause a ruckus, but the raven haired boy could tell just by the firm set his jaw and the tell tale sharpness of his eyes. The older man was also silent the whole drive home.

Keith lived in an art studio apartment, with Shiro dropping a bit of money to help him make rent, an arrangement that came with too many paintings. Granted, Shiro hadn’t meant for the younger brother to actually move out when he rented the space, merely wanting somewhere to store all the paint and canvases that overran Keith’s room, but the younger boy was never one to do things half way and sort of accidentally moved into the studio. Something Shiro and Adam both were passive aggressively bitter about and constantly dropping hints that maybe he should sleep in his actual room.

It’s not surprising that Adam doesn’t drive anywhere near his apartment then, instead heading straight for their small house on the edge of the city limits. Keith doesn’t even have the energy to protest. Instead he sluggishly made his way towards his old bedroom, still perfectly intact. It makes sense, because he never officially moved out, he just started sleeping on a couch at the studio.

Kosmo was perched on his bed, still relaxing from where Keith had dropped him off the last time he had been over. He gives his faithful companion an affectionate pet on the head before slumping against his mattress ad burying his face into the blankets. He doesn’t let himself fall asleep, knowing that Adam was just waiting to explode.

And explode he does.

Adam comes in with a hot bowl of soup and the longest lecture Keith has gotten from him yet, complete with scolding and pursed lips. He gives golden voiced lectures with all the rage of a Greek mom, something that Keith secretly likes joking about when he’s not the one on the receiving end of the anger. He’s cracked a lot of McGonagall jokes too, because he’s pretty sure Adam is secretly Maggie Smith.

But, in all seriousness, Adam is pissed.

Keith, in his early twenties, finds himself grounded and exiled to his room until he has had “proper bed rest”.

Normally, he would spitefully turn on the tv, or start painting anyway, but he left all his supplies in the studio and he’s too tired to find the remote. So he lays there, drifting in and out of awareness, until he finally gives in and falls asleep with Kosmo pressed against his side and a warm blanket draped over him.

* * *

He dreams of ballrooms that night.

Keith has never imagined himself as Cinderella, even when he was living with some of the worst families in the system. But in this dream, he thinks he might be. He’s not wearing a dress, exactly, he’s not really sure what he’s wearing. A robe? Pants? He’s not sure, but it’s beautiful, and there are butterflies and flowers everywhere.

Faceless dancers spin all around, but somehow he knows he’s the center of attention still. His lips tastes like coffee still, and blue music plays all around him, dizzying and drowning him in their great pools of color. Somehow Cinderella bleeds away to Beauty and the Beast, and he’s in the ballroom from that movie, Misses Potts singing in her wise golden voice about tales as old as time.

A tanned hand grabs him, a red rose is tucked behind his ear, and Keith finds himself pulled into a dance. Lance smiles down at him, his blue eyes shining and bright as sapphires. The pale artist melts into the dance, swaying and singing to that golden song. He could stay here forever, heart beating like a red drum against his chest.

He’s red, every part of him is red. And Lance is blue, with golden buttons and pins, looking every bit like the fairytale prince he was supposed to be. Keith’s never believed in fairytales before, the magic burned out of him by too many bad homes and too much loss, but here, now, his heart flutters beneath a dreamy wave of turquoise and violet. Their heads meet, and everything bleeds into lilac.

Lance’s lips press against his, soft and sweet like mangoes.

* * *

Waking up isn’t fun.

Keith is generally a morning person, but waking up after days without sleep and a caffeine high is always going to be a mess. Waking up from his dream on top of that didn’t do much to improve the terrible caffeine hangover he’s supporting.

Kosmo wriggles out of bed, falling to the ground with a loud thump before bolting out of his cracked open door. He doesn’t even stop to check on Keith, who woke up groaning, the traitor.

Violet eyes search for his phone, only for the boy to realize that he fell asleep in his clothes, phone in his pocket and probably well and truly dead by now. He groans again, settling for glancing out the window, peeking between the cracks in the blinds only to see that it was pretty dark outside. He peels himself out of bed, forcing himself up, feeling absolutely disgusting as he stumbles towards the bathroom like an honest to god zombie.

He really does look like a mess, he realizes once he reaches the bathroom and glances into a mirror. Throwing his clothes off doesn’t help, only making him more aware of how badly he needed to take care of himself.

Taking a quick shower helps with his headache more than he would admit to anyone else. He spends a few solid minutes beneath the shower head, letting warm water beat against his tired skin, the silvery pitter patter ringing through his ears. He closes his eyes, humming along softly to the sound, his own red voice playing against the sliver.

He should paint a rainy park sometime.

With silver tipped red roses.

Maybe he could convince the theater to do an adaptation of Alice and Wonderland or something sometime. But that was for the future, he really should be focusing on what he was going to do to finish off the garden. It was Allura’s scene, after all, so everything had to fit her, perfectly pink, which fit Romelle as well, which was good because she was Cinderella and he really shouldn’t forget about her just because he thought the scene was more Allura’s than hers.

Romelle was a series of bright colors, all bubblegum pinks and periwinkles. He could get away with his pink and blue color choice perfectly with her. Which meant if the director asked he could excuse all the blue he was using throughout the piece as both the music he was listening to and Romelle’s signature color.

He feels heat building beneath his cheeks. He hides his red flushed face behind his hands, not caring that he’s alone. The sudden wave of pure embarrassment hitting him with force. God, what was he thinking? Was he really such a mess that he painted his biggest piece after some dumb guy?

Yes, yes he did.

And Allura noticed.

Someone stab him. He can’t believe he did this. He’d gotten so caught up in impressing Lance and making sure he was happy with it he’d forgotten that other people might notice. Now that he was well rested and had taken a step back it was...so embarrassing. He was such a fucking dumbass.

It took everything in Keith’s power not to bang his head against the shower wall.

* * *

Hours later, Keith is back in the theater.

It’s later than he’d normally would arrive, having had to fight Adam on going in. With a full night's sleep and a shower backing him up, followed shortly by breakfast, the Greek man had no choice but to let him go with nothing more than a disapproving eye and a wrinkled nose.

So he strolls on into the theater, for once without coffee in hand, clocks in and beelines towards the stage.

The actors are all gathered, rehearsing their lines. Lance is front and center, in the middle of a romantic speech towards Romelle. His usual green jacket is gone, and he’s wearing that blue and white shirt of his that looks...nice. His arm is tossed out dramatically, head thrown back as he declares his love towards an unnecessarily swooning Romelle. Keith stops for a moment, simply watching the spectacle.

“...for I have seen the stars shine, and none compare to you, beloved.” Lance recited lovingly and beautifully blue towards the girl, “And I have traveled across…great...distanc…what are you doing here?”

It took Keith a moment to realize that Lance had spotted him, staring at him with a disapproving glare. Everyone else was jerked out of the scene, turning to stare at him as well, only to huff in annoyance once they realized just what the source of the interruption was. Keith, for his part, needed to take a moment to realize that Lance was speaking to him.

“I have to work.” Keith raised a brow at the brunette.

“Ohhhh nooo. No sir, not after you passed out on the stage yesterday.” Lance crosses his arms into an X, swaying towards Keith with a look of fierce determination. “You better go home mullet.”

Keith doesn’t think this is necessary. He’s gotten his full nights sleep, and that should be more than enough. He says as such too, making sure to meet Lance’s eyes as he rises to the challenge, “I got my sleep, so I’m fine.”

“Last time I heard that you ended up unconscious for a good ten minutes and gave everyone a heart attack.” Lance is up in his face with narrowed eyes, poking Keith’s chest rather aggressively, “It makes me think you don’t actually know what fine means.”

The pale boy wrinkles his nose, narrowing his own eyes at the Cuban, “I’m fine Lance, had my shower and everything, so my stink shouldn’t bother your delicate sensibilities today.”

Lance looks like he swallowed a lemon.

Keith had to turn, unable to help the twitch of his lips. He could spot Allura eyeing him from the front row seats, probably similarly annoyed that he was here, but he just sends her a smug grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make sure the garden is done in time for the play.”

“Right after you die.” Lance muttered behind him, following after him, “Oh my gawd, it’s like you are physically incapable of listening to good sense.”

“What I’m incapable of doing is leaving that canvas looking like that.” Violet eyes glare at the stage, where the rotating background was still set on the garden, half blank and waiting to be filled with color. “That’s a disgrace.”

“It doesn't even matter.” Lance insisted, and if that wasn’t just the most insulting thing Keith had heard this week…

“I guess I’ll just let you act in front of a blank background then.” Keith snapped, turning back to throw a quick glare at Lance, “Since it’s so fucking unimportant.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Lance holds up his hands defensively, “I did not mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it then?” Keith challenged, maybe a little too aggressively. He’s never liked it when people brushed off his hard work though, and it’s even worse coming from Lance, who this was all meant to impress. As if all that wasn’t enough, the worst part was Lance and Coran and everyone else were right. He didn’t need to do this. Clearly, no one fucking cared, so he was wasting his damn time.

Fuck, why’d they even bother hiring him? He’s seriously starting to rethink his position on designing Allura’s perfume bottles. At least then there would be some damn appreciation for the details.

“I’m...just...ugh.” Lance pulled at his hair, “ It’s just a dumb painting! You don’t have to kill yourself over it.”

Logically speaking, Keith knew this wasn’t a rejection. Logically speaking, he knew that Lance was trying to express some kind of worry for him. Logically speaking, this shouldn’t have been a big deal.

Keith wasn’t typically a logically driven person.

There was so much time, effort, and love put into his work. Hours and hours of careful fingers and shaky breaths, whole scores of musical colors bleeding into the wind. He’d poured his heart and soul into these, worked so hard and so long, and was so proud of them. But all his hard work just didn’t seem to matter, and he’s left feeling stupid.

Lance could have slapped him and it wouldn’t have hurt as bad.

“Fine.” Keith hisses, jerking away. “Then you don’t have to look at it, but I’m not going to stop just because you don’t like it.”

He doesn’t care to hear Lance’s excuses. He’s too angry, too bitter, the taste of defeat on his tongue and the bleeding red of his own anger rushing in his ears. Humiliation shouldn’t feel so familiar, but it is, and it burns like acid on the skin.

* * *

He ignores Lance for the next week.

Rehearsals go on, stage set up goes on, but Keith doesn’t pay much attention to any of it. He goes back to his work his earphones turned up and eyes firmly on the canvas. His heart isn’t in the project anymore, every brush stroke and swip forced and sluggish. He’s starting to hate his work, dreading every moment working on it and wishing it was over.

It wasn’t like he was half-assing the backdrop or anything, but the passion was long gone. The spark is gone. He tries to plug his ears with the sounds of Rococo era music, but it only serves to make the colors bleed all over the canvas and he snatches out his earbuds.

Lance’s voice is calling over the stage, over the indigo music in his ears, raining blue across the edges of his vision. He doesn’t look, he doesn’t dare. He’s determined to keep the wall up between them, not letting his eyes stray.

It was easy for the first day or two. Lance didn’t bother him, and Keith was sure that this was it for a while. So he focuses on his art, pulling more all nighters just to finish this piece as fast as possible so he could move on and not have to deal with it anymore. Any good that one day of sleep and shower had done him was long gone, and soon he’s back to square one, with his baggy eyes and endless coffee. The only difference now is that he feels...less satisfied, less like he’s doing a job well done and more like he’s tackling an endless chore.

The week ticks by.

Allura tries and fails to get him to stop and rest, citing burnout and threatening that she would talk shit about him at his funeral. He ignores her, taking in his coffee and slowly filling in the blanks of his painting, giving painstaking detail where it doesn’t need to be because he is a prideful, spiteful, asshole.

Soon his days are filled with the sounds of rehearsals over the sounds of music. Pink and blue voices all mix together, bouncing off reds and yellows and greens. Soon, he’s memorizing the lines better than some of the actors seem to, muttering them under his breath as the actors call them out. Meanwhile he’s losing energy, becoming more and more exhausted as the seconds tick on by.

It all comes to a head at the end of the week, when he’s barely more functional than a zombie, that everything comes to a head. It’s this day, when he’s two steps away from finishing the piece, just needing to finish the patio, that his exhaustion comes back to bite him.

“Plaxum! You can’t leave!” Coran’s orange voice cries through the room, bouncing off the walls and echoing off the walls, startling Keith as he tries to finish off the last pink rose. “You’re the evil stepmother! We don’t have anyone to replace you at this short of time!”

“Then you should have hired an understudy.” Plaxum flips one of her long, bright blue, pigtails. She has a hand on her hip, staring at Coran with a disapproving glare. “Then this wouldn't be a problem.”

“Your contract said you had no prior engagements!” Coran cried, “And all our understudies went to other roles!”

“I didn’t know Florona was going to get sick now, did I?” Plaxum huffs, “It’s not my fault you don’t have enough understudies! You can’t expect me to not be with my friend when she could be on her last breath soon!”

Keith is standing right there, brush in hand, watching the two of them argue. The rest of the cast seem to have chosen to stay out of it, pulling off to the side to let them settle the matter on their own. Lance isn't’ there, Keith can’t help but notice, otherwise he probably would have stepped in.

But he’s not here, and Plaxum is on her own, her eyes watery and looking ready to cry.

Keith has always liked Plaxum. It was stupid, really, because there’s no reason not to like her. She’s clever, funny, nice, and has never been anything but pleasant to him. He’s known her since they were kids, they’d shared a foster home for a long time, and she’s honestly one of the only people he can say he knows from his childhood. Not that she remembered, though he doesn’t blame her for that, they were just kids, and it’s hard to remember all the kids you were bounced around with from foster homes, especially since he, in particular, never stayed in one long, being too clingy and too full of issues from too many bad homes.

No, his issue with her was more stupid than that.

She used to date Lance.

He knows it’s stupid, he knows it’s unreasonable, and it’s not even an issue anymore, but it was something he never tackled. She’d dated Lance for a month or two shortly after Keith had discovered he was stupidly head over heels for the asshole and it had hurt. It had been a terrible, ripping, jealous and all consuming pain. And then, just when he was ready to move on, they broke up and that hope sparked back up, and he was dragged back into pining over the jerk all over again.

He’s never been hostile to Plaxum about it, because despite it all he wasn’t actually an asshole, but he still remembers that pain when he sees her sometimes. It doesn’t hurt or anything, but he remembers it.

And maybe that’s why he did what he did next, because of a vague sense of guilt for not liking her over something so dumb. Or maybe it was because of some vague sense of responsibility to a girl who used to be his foster sister and he used to have to tuck in. Or maybe it was even the lack of sleep this week causing him to open his mouth.

“Just let her go.” Keith pipes in, turning back to add the dew-drop detail on the last rose. “It’s not like it’s hard to learn all the lines I’ve memorised basically the whole damn play just listening to you all this week.”

It was that last bit of unnecessary detail that doomed him.

The next think he knows, Coran has his hands on his shoulders, jerking him around and getting into his face. He’s never seen insanity this close before, and it’s an enlightening experience. He’s half sure Coran is ready to eat him, that’s how wide and insane those eyes are.

“Do you really?” Coran shake him back and forth, “Do you really know all the lines?!”

“Yes?” Keith answers slowly, too startled to deny it, “I mean, I’ve heard the whole thing so much I’ve got every line pretty mu-”

“You’re hired!” Coran shouts, throwing his arms into the air. He drops them then, holding his fingers like they’re a camera lens, peering at him with a single, critical, eye. “Don’t worry my boy, the costume will look fine on you. In fact! I think this will work splendidly! The audience will get a right kick out of a stepmother who is so obviously a man!”

“...what?” Keith’s voice sounded incredibly flat, almost outright devoid of life.

“Don’t worry! You’ll be perfect!” Coran shouts as he turns to Plaxum, “You can go be with your friend.”

“Wait, hold the fuck up.” Keith held up his hands, trying to straighten out his thoughts, “Are you stupid? I can’t act!”

“No, no, no.” Coran waves his hands, “You don’t understand Keith, you’re perfect with just your personality!”

“Excuse me?” Keith demanded, dropping his paintbrush, because he did not appreciate that comparison. He knows he’s a bit of an asshole, but he like to think he’s not on the same level as the goddamned stepmother.

“Yes! Emote exactly like that!” Coran’s shouted excitedly, orange and loud. He threw his arms out, turning on his heel to face the gathered actors, “Crisis averted everyone!”

“Wait just a damn moment.” Keith shuffled after Coran, grabbing the man’s shoulder and turning him around, “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“You mean you won’t do it?” Coran asked, baffled, “But Keith, we don’t have the time to find an actor to replace her and learn the lines!”

“I learned them in, like, a week, I’m sure you can make do.” Keith crossed his arms, eyes twitching. He was probably being more snappish than he needed, but he was tired, okay? Fuck, he didn’t want anything to do with this anymore.

“You clearly don’t know how long it takes to hire people!” Coran cried, throwing out his arms, “Weeks! It takes weeks!”

Plaxum, who’d perked up tremendously through Keith’s rather sudden and unexpected hiring, visibly deflated. She lost her smile, and the sheer disappointment that colored her aqua voice rang in the pale boy’s heart, “So...you’re not covering me and I can’t visit Florona?”

And if that just didn’t squeeze Keith’s heart he didn’t know what did.

It isn’t fair, she didn’t even remember him.

Damn guilt.

“Fine.” He sighs, eyes twitching, his shoulders sinking. Maybe he’s just too tired, or maybe he’s weak to disappointed looks like that even for people that make him uncomfortable. “I’ll do it, just go...do whatever you needed to do for your friend.’

Plaxum instantly brightened, her eyes flashing, smiling bright as sunshine. She looked at Keith like he was her saviour, and knight sent from on high to save her in her time of need. She’d liked stories like that, he thinks, trying to recall vague memories of bedtime stories he hastily made up for her. “Thank you Keith!”

Then she rushed over to him, throwing her arms around him and squeezes him tight. She pulled back, pecking his cheek with soft lips, her lipgloss leaving the slightest bit of pink lemonade behind, “I really can’t thank you enough for this. It means the world to me. Florona is my best friend and I need to be there for her.”

“No problem.” Keith says, a bit uncomfortably.

“WHOA!” Lance’s blue voice suddenly echoed through the hall. Keith and Plaxum jerked up, the pale boy instinctively pushing away from the girl as his violent eyes snapped towards a wide eyed and open mouthed Lance. The brunette stood beneath the doorway, gasping like a fish, eyes trained on him, “Since when was this a thing? I thought you had better tastes than liking mullets Plaxum.”

Keith’s stomach drops.

Plaxum clicks her tongue, decidedly unimpressed, “I don’t think you’ve ever seen a real mullet, Lance.”

Lance doesn’t even look properly scolded, he just looks confused and starts waving his arm wildly at Keith, “I do! And I’m just confused about how this happened!”

“This...” Plaxum scolds, folding her arms, “...is me being thankful for the huge favor that Keith has just done for me. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Lance blinks again, jerking back, still looking dazed and confused. He waves his arms in front of himself, waving them defensively, “Wait, no! I’m not judging! Well...I am...but only the haircut!”

Plaxum still looks angry and unimpressed, glaring at him with as much disapproval as he’s ever seen from the girl, “Well, good, then you’ll have no problem with the new step mother.”

Lance looks relieved for all of one moment before he blinks again, going straight back to confusion as the words caught up to him, “Wait? What?”

* * *

Playing the evil stepmother is the worst mistake of Keith’s young life.

Or so he would adamitly tell anyone who asked. Shiro would affectionately say that stealing his car when they met should be higher on the list, and Keith would retort back that stealing the car ended with Shiro adopting him so it clearly didn’t count. Adam, a much more sensible human being, would claim the worst mistake Keith had ever made was punching out a former teacher of his and almost getting an assault charge. Keith’s only response to that particular statement would be that Iverson deserved it for being shitty to a kid having a panic attack after thinking his brother died.

So, clearly, being the evil stepmother was the worst mistake of his life.

Turns out Rococo style French dresses were just as ridiculous and uncomfortable as they looked in all the paintings. Keith was half convinced he could fit a mini volvo under his skirts alone, there were way too many laces and dangly bits, and the powdered wig was easily the worst thing he’d ever worn.

He looked as ridiculous as it sounded. It was obvious he was a man, with his too broad shoulders and his flat chest, but apparently he was “just feminine enough in the face to really throw off the audience”. Keith found the idea outrageous himself, but Coran insisted that this was the best possible thing that could have happened.

“The real treat is when you speak!” Coran had shouted once he’d first seen Keith in his new costume, “Your voice is much too deep to be mistake for a woman! It’s perfect!”

The glare he’d sent the man’s way only made his stage manager nearly cry at it’s “perfection”.

Keith was left scolding as he tried to ruffle the tassels of his sleeves, trying to make everything comfortable as possible. It didn’t do anything to help at all, and he was left in a sour mood for the rehearsal.

Which, unfortunately, only helped his acting considering you were supposed to hate the stepmother.

“Cinderella.” He snapped out the name in a crisp, sharp, red that wasn’t usual for his voice. He’s normally a deeper red, the color of red roses and the red hue of sunset. Today it’s mixed with icy mist, lingering just before pink and fading. The two curves of powdery white flanking the side of his face bounce off each cheek, furthering his irritation, “Clean up this mess.”

“Yes, my lady.” Romelle’s bubblegum pink rolls out her her meekly as she kneels down in her dirty rags. She looks worn and thin in her tattered clothes and messy hair, more like a beggar than the nobel she should have been.

Out in the audience the other actors are quietly reading over their lines or practicing scenes under their breath together. Keith doesn’t think it’s fair that they get to wear their casual clothes while he has to wear this damn dress. Especially when Lance was sitting in the audience, stripped of his jacket and wearing that one blue and white shirt that Keith loves seeing him in, leaning back and watching them with his hands behind his head and feet propped up. The jackass.

“And clean up these stairs.” Keith growls as he approaches a set of stairs he and the prop crew had finished long ago, stepping up them a bit, “Trim the roses, gather the laundry, and for god’s sake, tidy the kitchen. Lazy girl, did you think I wouldn’t notice the mess?”

“Forgive me, my lady.” Romelle bowed her head as Keith stormed by, shrinking back from his harsh voice, “I will see to these tasks.”

Keith huffs as he walks up the steps, holding up the ends of his damned dress to keep from tripping over the damn hems, reaching the fake second floor, shoes clicking silver and sharp against the wooden railing as he exits the stage, past the rotated scenes and into the safety of the backstage room.

He hopes Coran got a good look at whatever he wanted to see with all this, because Keith wasn’t going back out there for anything. Resolved by his anger, he snatches off the wig, the dangling curls finally stopping their annoying patting as he tosses the damn thing onto the backstage table. His mood instantly improves once he’s freed of the abomination, so he quickly goes about trying to shed the rest of his costume.

It’s harder than it looks.

“I haven’t even put on the stupid stage paint yet.” Keith realizes with a wash of horror, trying in vain to reach whatever knot or zipper kept this dress so snug against his chest. How did women deal with this? He couldn’t even squeeze out of this thing on his own.

“Need help?” Blue interrupts his struggling. Keith flinches as he hears it, more than familiar with the sound.

“I got it.” Keith doesn’t turn to face Lance, determined not to do this to himself right now. He doesn’t trust his own temper right now, and the brunette had a talent for pouring gasoline on his open fire temper. There’s also a petty, somewhat heartbroken, part of Keith that doesn’t want to face the boy after so many failures to impress him in a row. It’s stupid, he knows it is, and he doesn’t even know what he’d expected. For the painting to somehow be a turning point for them? He doesn’t even know anymore. He should have learned after their little ‘Bonding Moment’ that nothing was ever going to come of this.

Maybe he’s just good at stringing himself along.

Whatever, he’s done with this. It’s been months of useless pining, it’s more than time for him to move on.

Or at least try, Keith thinks bitterly, because he knows himself. He’s no wilting flower, but when he loves he loves deep, and he takes longer to get over feelings than is maybe healthy. Still, he can do it, and he’ll start now by not playing Lance’s game.

“You don’t have shit.” Lance teases, his footsteps echoing blue through the room. Most people’s footsteps are grey, or brown, but everything about Lance just seems to be blue. “You look like a trapped rat.”

“I’m fine.” Keith insists, struggling with trying to untie the dress. God, what was wrong with old French ladies back then? This whole thing was a disaster. “I’ve got this.”

“You’ve got an inevitable death by smothering.” Lance chuckles, and damn it, his gay fucking heart can’t take that sound. He stops for a moment, listening to blue footsteps, heart thudding against his chest as Lance’s shoes step into the edge of his vision. There are hands on his back now, pulling at the tie he couldn’t reach before, loosening the corset enough to slip off his form just a little bit, falling to about midway down his torso.

Keith hisses, turning to face Lance with a halfhearted scold. “Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to pull off other people’s clothes without permission?”

Lance didn’t say anything at first. He seemed to have frozen, his eyes flickering over Keith a few time before settling on staring blankly at the place where the dress clung itself onto his hips, barely keeping from falling and leaving him in nothing but his boxers, which peaked just past the hem of the dress.

If Lance was trying to get a glimpse of his underwear for humiliation purposes than he was going to be disappointed, because Keith wasn’t dumb enough to wear anything but the most boring and plain black pair of boxers he owned just for this kind of situation. Fuck anyone that thought he’d wear jeans under that hot as fuck dress. He turns away from Lance, not willing to face the other boy’s teasing right now. He struggles with the dress, fighting his way out of the abomination.

Lance doesn’t say anything, but Keith can feel the other’s eyes burning into his back. That’s fine by Keith, it’s easier to ignore staring than it is to ignore Lance’s big mouth. It’s a little strange, but he’s used to Lance staring at him, and anything is better than the brunette insulting him and setting off his already fragile temper.

Or so Keith thought, until he felt a hand on the bare skin of his back.

He hisses, surprised by the sudden contact, sizing up and whirling around with wide eyes. Lance stood with his own hand raised, wide eyed and staring at the limb like he was also surprised by what he’d just done. “Umm…”

“What’d you do?” Keith blurted the first coherent sentence that entered his brain. His skin still tingled where Lance hand pressed the palm of his hand against his back, and he was hyper aware of the exact spot Lance had touched, right between the shoulder blades.

“Umm…” Lance continued dumbly, blinking and still staring at the back of his raised hand. He didn’t seem to know how to respond to the supposedly simple question.

Keith’s skin itched, his throat itched, everything itched. He was on fire, half mortified and half breathless. The awkward silence between them didn’t abate. They both stood there, staring, silence heavy and thick in the air. Lance’s eyes kept flickering, the light catching in them as he fought to keep his eyes on Keith’s face.

Eventually it became too much for the pale boy coughed and turned away, “I’m...going to get dressed.”

“Yeah! Yeah...good idea.” Lance’s blue voice sounded oddly choked, “You do that.”

Then the sound of footsteps played through the back rooms as the Cuban boy fled, leaving Keith alone to wonder what, exactly, was happening.

* * *

Keith finishes his last background about two days later under Allura’s careful eye.

His days are torn between painting and rehearsing now, sometimes both at the same time, lazily calling out lines over his shoulder while he’s busy adding details to the flowers. Coran, for his part, seemed happier with Keith’s performance when he was distracted painting or pissed with his rotating potential costumes than when Keith was paying attention and wearing casual clothes. So Keith was stuck between being forced into costumes at all times and finishing up with paints while drowning beneath a new sea of colored voices.

In his professional opinion, his background suffered for it.

“You’re insane.” Allura insisted once he stepped back and sneered at the finished product, declaring his hatred for the garden and everything to do with it.

“It’s not good enough.” Keith sneered again, glaring at the silver-tipped pink and blue roses, diamond crusts of paint smeared all over his body, long lines of greens and pinks and blues covering his arms. His hands are on his hips, disapproval dripping deep and crimson from his voice.

Allura huffs, but luckily drops the subject, because she knows him well enough to recognize that nothing she says is going to change his mind about how awful the finished product is. It’s not like he can do anything about it now anyway, it would take too long to change or repaint the background, so he’s stuck with this mess.

The others are looking over his work, throwing him compliments. He only half hears them though, too busy staring at a crooked blue rose tucked over the gazebo. He hates it, he hates this entire piece, he doesn’t care what anyone else says. It’s stupid, the whole thing is stupid, it looks stupid and he’s wasted weeks on it.

He shuffles the toes of his shoe into the stage, glowering at the painting, trying to pinpoint when and where he’d first gone wrong.

“Whoa.” He hears Lance breath, his ears shamefully trained to pick up on that blue voice and eyes familiar with the tone. He turns, spotting Lance’s T-shirt clad form walk onto the stage, two cups of coffee in his hands, “You’re done! That looks amazing!”

Keith scoffs. Those were bold words coming from someone that had called this very painting stupid weeks ago. “It’s sloppy is what it is.”

“Are you kidding? This looks like it leaped right out of some fairy land and onto the stage.” Lance moves to stand next to him, “Not to stroke your already too massive ego, but I gotta give credit where it’s due.”

Keith almost wanted to laugh at the comment, because the guy clearly didn’t know about his massive self hatred. He was so fucking done with this asshole. “I’d destroy this whole thing if I could.”

“I would fight you.” Lance says seriously, jaw locking with set determination, “This is beautiful and I’m willing to fight for it’s honor. How dare you? Kingdoms will prosper once they see it.”

“What happened to it being stupid.” Keith turned and cocked a brow at the tanned boy, decidedly unimpressed with the sudden change in attitude.

“That was back when you were actually going to die over it.” Lance defends, holding up his two coffee cups like a shield between them. he reached out one of the cups, holding it towards Keith, who can only stare at it dumbly. Lance waits a moment, and Keith realizes he’s supposed to take the cup a little too slowly then he honestly should. He blinks dumbly and reaches for it, his fingertips brushing against Lance’s hand just the tiniest bit as he takes it, leaving them inflamed from the contact.

“You’d probably die without me.” Lance says once Keith takes the coffee, shrugging as he turns to stare at the painting, sipping at his own cup, “I’m convinced you’d crash if i didn’t provide you with a constant flow of your sin coffee.”

Keith froze.

Lance didn’t notice, just sipping his coffee like an asshole, muttering on like they were just having a normal conversation and he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Seriously though, I thought you were going to die half the time. Nice as it stands, I’m glad you’re done, because half the time I was convinced you were going to kneel over and die from, like, caffeine overdose or something.”

“You were the one that was giving me the coffee?” Keith blurted, honestly surprised, his hand tightening around the styrofoam cup.

Lance eyes went wide, and his head snapped over, “You didn’t notice? How? Oh my god, you really didn’t notice! You really were about to die! How did you not notice?”

“I thought it was Allura!” Keith justified lamely, knowing that it was a weak defense at best and didn’t actually answer Lance’s questions at all.

Lance, predictably, scoffed, “Like a goddess on her level would stoop to being your coffee runner.”

Joke was on him, because Allura was about as much of a “goddess” as Keith himself was. That was to say, not at all, because she was a messy, angry, little food runner and the only difference between her temperament and his is that she was better at pretending she wasn’t an asshole. “She got me my lunch, what else was I supposed to think?”

“Got you your-” Lance cut himself off, shaking his head, “Nevermind. I can’t believe you didn’t notice I was getting you coffee everyday. I talked to you and everything.”

“I’m sorry?” Keith shrugged, “Did you not notice my earbuds?”

“Ear…” Lance looked so offended for a moment, like he actually wanted to pull out his hair and scream. His gaze dropped to his feet, blue words a dark murmur, “Okay, yeah, that makes sense.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t notice my earbuds.” Keith stated flatly.

“And I can’t believe you never noticed I gave you coffee, so we’re both idiots.” Lance shoots back, and, alright, that’s a good point.

They’re both left to stare at each other for a good minute, a solid silence filling the air. They’re still reeling in disbelief, and it feels like something about them has changed, that something about the way Lance is looking at him has changed, but Keith would be damned if he could pinpoint what it was that somehow changed between them.

“So you weren’t ignoring me?” Lance blurts out after a moment, the blue in his voice lighter than Keith had seen it in a long time, something high pitching his voice, “Because I thought you were being an asshole, but you were just being a dumbass instead, right?”

“I’m not a dumbass.” Keith wanted it to be biting, but it was softer than that, more reassuring, because he’s always been weak for Lance. “You just didn’t notice I missed what you were saying.”

That should be reassuring at all, but somehow it made Lance smile, his eyes going soft and voice going quite, “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“I don’t know how you missed my earbuds though.” Keith turns away and takes a sip of his coffee before his traitor heart could make him do or say something stupid.

Lance yelps defensively again, “Hey! You were the one that took coffee from a stranger! What if I was trying to poison you!”

“I would have welcomed death.” Keith states seriously, because he had been that stressed and that ready to die at that point. He’s not serious, he doesn’t want to die, but he won’t let Lance know that. Shiro’s gallows humour is rubbing off on him too much.

“Not before the damn play you won’t.” Lance snaps, “There’s no Cinderella without the stepmother.”

“Technically, there could be if you just gave most of her lines to the stepsisters.” Keith shoots back, sipping his coffee again, “I’m not needed.”

“Ohhhhhh no, no, no. You’re not backing out now.” Lance is suddenly all kinds of serious, and it kind of gives Keith whiplash with how fast the mood has changed. He blinks, surprised, because he was just joking but Lance doesn’t seem to have taken it that way at all. Tanned hands hand landed on Keith’s paint stained shoulders, turning him to face the brunette’s suddenly very stern expression, “We need you here.”

Keith was silent for a few moments, unsure what to say. He swallowed, only finding his voice once his suddenly dry throat was wet again, “...Okay.”

Lance nods, that serious frown still on his face. Keith wants to wipe it off, and he’s heavily tempted by the idea of reaching over to plant his lips on Lance’s, because they’re actually standing pretty close, and he wants to wipe that look off the other boy’s face. It would be so easy to reach out and cup those tanned cheeks between his pale hands, staining them with blue and silver, leaving his fingerprints behind once he pulls away from smearing Lance’s lips with the taste of coffee and the remains of pink paint.

He wonders what color the sounds of their kiss would make.

* * *

Playing the stepmother was something he was, apparently, born to do. Or, at least, Coran seemed to think so every time Keith practiced his lines with the cast. He doesn’t work much with Lance, which was good because things were...weird...with them ever since Keith had finished his last background. The Cuban boy had suddenly gotten much friendlier lately, and Keith wasn’t sure what was going on but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be good for his grumpy and mean-spirited performance. Luckily, the evil stepmother and the prince never shared any lines, so he was free to be an asshole unhindered on stage.

Unfortunately, Lance had picked up the habit of watching him from the seats. The Cuban boy would kick back and watch, his feet propped up and with an ignored script in his lap, while his blue eyes settled on stage. Keith didn’t know what he was watching, maybe he was just making sure the paler boy didn’t fuck up now that he’d taken it on himself to be friendlier, but it left the noirette distracted. And, of course, that made him more snappish when he was pulled back into the play when the others gave him his que.

Coran was absolutely delighted.

Allura, on the other hand, kept becoming more and more frustrated about something Keith could guess, staring between himself and Lance before muttering under her breath and giving the artist a look he thinks he’s supposed to interpret. He never gets it, and she’s left in a silent and frustrated rage that he doesn’t entirely think is justified. He does, however, enjoy her frustration as petty revenge for dealing with her and Lotor’s bullshit for weeks, so whatever.

Romelle, on the other hand, is a lot less subtle with her frustrations. She’s taken her role very seriously, and she doesn’t appreciate how distracted he gets, even if it doesn, apparently, lead to him giving a better performance. He’s earned a lot of ear tugs from her, which only served to make him more snappish in the next round of practice, which only made Coran happier. Meanwhile Lance’s blue eyes never leave him and it all circles back and feeds those same flames and drives them all further into this strange routine they’ve built.

Then Keith would be off stage, and he’d find himself reading over his lines in the seats, same as Lance, and the Cuban seemed to take this as some kind of challenge because then he’d be throwing his all into the rehearsal. And, okay, Lance had no business looking that good in a T-shirt while declaring his love for Cinderella to the world, blue eyes locked with violet like he was declaring those words to him rather than the world...

Keith cut that line of thinking off right there and forced himself to go back to his lines, face a bit more flushed than he was willing to let anyone see. Something was going on here, building up like steam in a bath house, and it was becoming more and more obvious every day, even if Keith couldn’t quite put his finger on what was building. A feeble, rebellious, part of him wants to believe that it’s just the play, but in his heart he knew it was something else.

At least Coran was happy.

* * *

Everything comes to a head, of course, the first day of the actual play. Because of course it did, why wouldn’t it, this was a theater and they were all artists whose lives were drowned in so much drama that it was riddikulus.

The first night of the play goes extremely well. They go through the show no less than three times, with an hour long break between showing, and intermission still in each play. Somehow, everything goes well, and the pure hate he has for his stupid costume with that stupid powdered wig and over the top red and white makeup is enough to get him through the plays as the grumpy asshole he was apparently born to be. He goes through the whole night looking like a clown, but he seems to be a hit because it felt like everyone wanted a picture with him in costume after the shows. He hadn’t known that would happen, but he grits his teeth and reminds himself that this was for Plaxum. It’s fine, because everyone thinks he’s still in character, and he has a half dozen children insult him before the night is out, then there are teens and adults that take silly selfies he knows is going onto whatever social media they use, but it’s all good for publicity so whatever.

He thinks he would die going through this, just lay down and die of exhaustion, if it weren’t for Lance.

Lance, the sweet, wonderful, idiot.

Lance, of course, doesn’t seem to ever run out of energy. He spent the whole night going through the plays, and handling mass amounts of children, and taking hundreds of photos with giggling girls. And he does it all while pulling people towards the backgrounds that Keith had painted because “it’ll be more magical”, and it’s honestly flattering and leaves a sweet warmth in his heart.

Or he’s just reaching for some empty meaning because he’s so desperate from some scrap of approval that he’s perfectly willing to reach for the smallest hints. It’s pathetic, and he knows it, but those backgrounds were made more for Lance than the play and he’s been pining for so long that it feels natural.

And Lance really did look great in front of those paintings, all dressed up nice and proper in his blue and silver outfit, looking perfectly like an actual prince in a ballroom. His blue laugh bouncing off of him and mixing with dizzying voices from all around. Keith gets lost in it more than once, and he’s more thankful than ever that their characters only share one line, and that he’s supposed to be staring at Lance when they’re on stage still.

Overall, he makes it through the night only half ready to die and having his gay ass somehow not ruin everything. So he’s in the back room, stripping off that over hot and overbearing costume, sight in relief as he strips down and Lance slips into the dressing room.

Keith freezes as the lanky Cuban stands near the doorway, silence falling between them. They can hear the others shuffling around outside, all getting ready to head home and rest so they can do this all again tomorrow night. But here, in this room, time was basically frozen as he and Lance just sort of stare at one another, silence falling heavy between them.

Lance breaks the silence first, coughing into his hand before reaching to scratch the back of his head awkwardly, “...hey.”

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go home?” Keith asks, only half dressed in some jogging pants, a shirt clenched in between his hands. Lance has already changed, his own clothes fitted losely on him, and he looks as exhausted as Keith feels.

The brunette blinks at him for a moment, still scratching the back of his head, “...I wanted to talk to you first.”

“...okay.” Keith nods, “Then talk.”

Lance is quiet for a little longer, and it’s absolute agony, because Keith’s tired, and he wants to go home, and he’s had to stare at Lance looking good and flirting with girls and declaring his love for Romelle all night. He’s drained, and Shiro probably didn’t pick him anything up for dinner tonight, so he still has a lot to do. Finally, Lance speaks again, slow and awkward, “...you did really good tonight.”

“Thanks. You too.” Keith breathes, finally looking down and putting on his shirt. When he looks up again Lance’s eyes are on him, and he’s biting his lip. Keith sighs, taking pity on the other boy, because he’s still always weak for the brunette. “You’re perfect for your role. Tonight was a big success.”

That seems to perk Lance up, and a gleam of something like confidence shines in his eye, “Thanks, you too.”

Keith frowns.

“Oh! Wait, shit.” Lance realizes what he just implied very quickly, stumbling over his own words as he tries to fix it, “I meant that you were great too! You’re perfect! That’s no surprise though, because you’re you and you’re always perfect, so you were great.”

Lance is backing away now, looking ready to bolt, his blue words bleeding all sorts of shades as his voice hitches different pitches. Keith barely processes his words, at first, but goes warm all over and probably redder than his voice when he does. He chokes a bit on the surprise, and it’s awkward, and Lance is still stumbling over his words, trying to reel back, and it’s so obvious this isn’t how he wanted this whole thing to go that he’s practically tripping all over himself.

“Lance.” Keith cuts him off, rubbing his temples, “Are you trying to insult me, or ask me out? Because I honestly can’t tell.”

Lance’s eyes go wide, “Only if you want me to!”

And of course Lance would do this in the most vague, confusing, way possible. Keith blinks at him, and he hopes his gaze is cool despite how rapidly his heart is beating. He’s overjoyed, and a little embarrassed because this is somehow even worse than when James asked him out in sixth grade. “Only you would insult me while trying to ask me out.”

Lance chuckles nervously, looking all the world like he has a noose around his neck, scratching his cheek as broken little chuckles leave his lips, “I do that to you a lot actually.”

...What…?

“Oh my god.” Keith lets out his own chuckles, the disbelief leaving him some strange wave of energy. “Are you trying to tell me that all those times you insulted me, and ragged on me, and snapped at me, you were trying to flirt with me?”

Lance bursts out laughing, and it might be the most beautiful shade of blue Keith’s seen out of the boy’s lips yet, “I know!”

“You genuinely made me think you hated me.” Keith’s laugh joins him.

“I know!”

“How does this even happen?”

“It was an accident.” Lance insists, still laughing, looking all the world like he can’t believe this is happening. “And it just sort of snowballed from there, and I didn’t know how to pull back, and now we’re here, and I wasn’t even going to ask you out tonight, I was just gonna try and lead up to it in the future.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know.”

Their laughs bleed together, leaving a lilac sky between them. It’s light, and soft, and pleasant to look at, and unfortunately the same color as Lotor’s voice. But right now Keith thinks it may be his new favorite color.

“So is that a yes?” Lance askes once his laugh dies down a bit, eyes bright as they meet Keith’s.

“Only if we wait until after the rest of the plays are done.” Keith bites his both lip a bit before smiling smugly at Lance, “Unless you want a three am date at some shit dinner.”

“Honestly, I’d take it.” Lance grins, shaking his head, “After how you were while you were painting those background, I’ll take any chance to make you eat anywhere.”

“I painted those to impress you.” Keith shoots, “And you called them stupid.”

Lance flinches at that, “Ouch. See, I’m shit at flirting with you. But, in the interest of fairness, I didn’t know that, so that one is on you.”

“You’re an insult to art.” Keith snorts, “So are we going on our date now or later.”

“Let’s get dinner.” Lance grins, “But save the date for after the play is over. I wanna sweep you off your feet and woo you, show you that I can really romance.”

Keith doesn’t tell him that Lance “wooed” him a long time ago and that he could, in fact, take him to a shit dinner and it’d be the most romantic thing in the world to the his biased ass. He wants to see what Lance will do. “Alright, sounds good.”

It’s a messy, sloppy, unromantic way to ask someone out, and Allura will probably be furious when she hears that it happened by accident, but Keith doesn’t care. He’s waited years for this, because he’s a sad fuck, and it’s perfect as far as he’s concerned. So they leave for dinner, not hand in hand, not yet, but the sound of blue and red laughs mixing into violet hues that Keith wants to surround himself in forever.


End file.
